


Accountability

by osprey_archer



Series: Reciprocity [25]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Guilt, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 08:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4256634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleaning up SHIELD's messes is about even more complicated than Steve thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accountability

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [littlerhymes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes) for betaing this!

“This is us at CarterCon,” Simmons said, bringing up another photo on her StarkPad. “Joyce dressed up as Harold York.”

Steve leaned over to look. They were sitting in a Starbucks across the street from the doughnut shop that employed Joyce Takei – or, rather, Ivy Goto. SHIELD had given all the mind-wipe victims new names.

Simmons lingered on this photo. “Sarah turned out to be Hydra too,” she said, pointing to a young woman dressed as Angela Martini, Peggy’s secretary and occasional damsel in distress in the _Peggy Carter_ novels. “Namita’s teaching at the University of Chicago now. Cassie’s still in a coma from the sedative gas Joyce released in the Sandbox.”

Steve looked at the smiling blonde girl in her sharp Golden Tarantula jacket. “Is there any hope of recovery?” he asked.

“None of them have woken up yet,” Simmons said. “Maybe I can do a bit of work on it, if I take Mr. Stark’s offer of lab space…”

Her voice trailed off. Tony had offered both Simmons and Fitz work at Stark Industries, but neither of them had responded to that offer yet. As Mack pointed out, jumping from a job with a shady international spy organization to a job with a shady international corporation was not, morally speaking, much of a change.

Although at least Stark Industries wasn’t keeping hundreds of prisoners in solitary confinement without trial. Steve saw the wisdom in waiting to release the prisoners until they had some facility to transfer them into, as well as a government agency willing to try them. But goddamn, he would have rather been breaking prisoners out than bringing them back in, even if the conditions were far better in Stark Tower than in any of the SHIELD prisons.

Steve’s phone beeped. “It’s almost three o’clock,” Steve said. “We’d better get in position.”

“Right,” said Simmons. She slipped the StarkPad back in its case, started to rise, then sat again. “Right. You first,” she said to Steve.

Steve was going to take up an unobtrusive post inside the doughnut shop in case Joyce went on the attack, like Mercer had when Bobbi and Natasha told her. Unlike Mercer, Joyce’s combat training was minimal, so hopefully she wouldn’t break anyone’s arm; but Steve would be there just in case.

The bells above the doughnut shop door jingled as Steve pushed it open. The doughnut shop wasn’t busy at this time of the afternoon. No one sat at the little pastel tables. Joyce stared vacantly at the countertop, but snapped out of her daze and smiled at him when he entered. “Welcome to Doughnut Delights!” she chirped. “How can I help you today?”

Steve felt a moment of painful identification. He knew exactly what it felt like to paste a smile on his face while secretly coming to pieces.

He settled a table near the door, where he could easily intercept Joyce if Simmons spooked her into running. One of the Joyce’s emails came irresistibly to Steve’s mind as he bit into a doughnut: _When I work the closing shift at the shop I get to take home as many leftover doughnuts as I want so I just take home a whole bunch and eat nothing else till they’re all gone, and sometimes if I don’t have any doughnuts I just don’t eat anything cause its way too much trouble buying food, lol._

Skye had written back requesting Ivy’s address (“Jackpot,” Bucky had muttered when he found it), and two days later Ivy thanked her for a package. _Thanks for the apples Daze!!!!!!_ Skye went by Daisy in her emails to her caseload. _My roomie Amber’s making a pie to take home when she visits her parents this weekend, lmao, and I’ve already eaten so many apples I think I’m going to turn into an apple!_

Joyce wrote Skye at least one email a day. After Tony blocked Skye’s internet access with an inhibiting bracelet, Joyce’s message count skyrocketed. In the week after Skye stopped responding, Joyce sent almost fifty increasingly frantic messages about Skye’s lack of response. _Are you dead? Please don’t be dead you can’t be dead. Probably you’re just stuck somewhere with no internet access, lol, just ignore all these messages I’m a crazy chick._

Bucky had sucked his lower lip under his teeth when that email arrived. “Come on, Steve, we can’t just leave her hanging. Let me write her a message as Daisy. I’ll ask for her work schedule. We can use that to arrange for Simmons to bump into her.” Maybe Steve looked doubtful, because Bucky added, his fingers already clacking on the keyboard, “The poor kid’s frantic. I’m writing. You can like it or lump it.”

The poor kid had killed half a dozen people and left nearly two-dozen more in a coma when she released the untested prototype of a new sedative gas on the Sandbox during the Hydra uprising. But it was hard not to hurt for her while reading those emails; and Bucky’s plan was a good one.

Steve wondered briefly how Bucky was doing. He had stayed an extra day at Dum Dum’s house after Thanksgiving. Bucky had tried to sound casual about it when he called to tell Steve, but he couldn’t quite hide his pleasure at the invitation; or maybe he wasn’t trying very hard to hide it. He must be on his way back to New York by now…

The jingling bell snapped Steve’s attention back to the doughnut shop. Simmons strode to the counter, doing a creditable job of making it casual, and then caught sight of Joyce. “Ivy!” she cried, in a voice of joyful surprise.

“Oh,” said Joyce. “Uh. Hi, you, it’s nice to…see you…again…?”

Crap. Steve had hoped for a little more recognition.

Simmons fell back. “You don’t remember me? We went to school together,” she said. Steve knew she had been undercover with Hydra for a few months, but her acting skills nonetheless surprised him; she hit a rather delicate note of not quite managing to hide her hurt and disappointment.

“Oh my gosh, I am so so sorry,” Joyce said. “I’m sure you were amazing and I ought to remember. I just – I had this accident a few months ago, and I really can’t remember much of anything before it. I mean, anything about my own life, I’m not wandering around going ‘What is traffic light?’ or anything.”

They weren’t all this forthcoming about their amnesia, but Simmons had suspected Joyce would be: “She never could keep a secret,” Simmons had said, looking down at a photo of Joyce hugging a large teddy bear. She was fifteen years old in her first year at the SHIELD Academy, Simmons said. In that photo, arms around the teddy bear, she looked about five. Simmons’ face had taken on a surprised hurt look, as if she had suddenly remembered. “Except Hydra, of course.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Simmons said now. “Do you have some time later? I’m in New York for a few days, and I’d love to catch up. Perhaps I can jog your memory?”

“I’m actually – I get off shift in just a few – well, let me ask Liliana. She’s the shift manager. Liliana? Liliana! One of my friends is here – a friend from before! Would you like a doughnut – Oh my gosh, what’s your name?”

“Jemma.”

“Take a doughnut. Take two. The pineapple upside-down cake doughnuts are delish. But wait! I think maybe you don’t like pineapple?” Steve could see Joyce’s reflection in the plate glass window. She had her hands clasped together, like she was praying, her face the picture of a child begging for a Christmas present.

Steve was fairly sure Simmons had no problems with pineapple, but apparently she didn’t want to disappoint that face, because she maneuvered around the question. “Could I try one of the blood orange doughnuts?”

“Yeah! Pick two or three. Liliana! Oh, shit, she’s taking the trash out. Listen, I get off shift in five minutes, if you can just wait, I am so sorry – ”

“I’ll sit right over there,” said Simmons, pointing to a table close to Steve. “I think I’ve got a photo album of the two of us on my StarkPad somewhere.”

“Really? That’s so awesome! Oh my God, you are so sweet. Thank you thank you thank you!”

Her enthusiasm pained Steve. Maybe a different angle of approach would have been kinder. Men in suits, very serious: Miss Goto? We need to speak to you. Let her know from the beginning that something terrible was up.

But it was too late to change this time around. Joyce and Simmons settled down over the photos together, chatting about them, Joyce stopping occasionally to encourage Simmons to dig into the doughnuts. “You haven’t even finished one!” Joyce complained, and let out a little squeal over a photograph. “I have a teddy bear who looks exactly like that!” Joyce squealed. “Do you remember what the original’s name was? I call the one I have now Mr. Snickers, but it never feels quite right, it drives me nuts.”

“I don’t remember,” said Simmons. She sounded distressed.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Joyce reassured her. “Really, like, a teddy bear, that’s a dumb thing to worry about, right? I just can’t get over how cute I look in this picture. I bet I didn’t think that at the time, huh? You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” She giggled suddenly, and slipped into song: “They paved paradise to put up a parking lot.”

“Do you remember doing karaoke?” Simmons asked. Her voice was low. “You had a machine set up in your dorm room.”

“No, God, sorry. Uh. I quote song lyrics a lot, I guess. Which is weird because I can’t, like, necessarily remember ever hearing these songs, but I know them. Um. Anyway. I guess you must have gone to the University of Washington with me and Daze, huh?”

A pause followed. Steve forced himself not to look up. If Joyce realized this was a set-up, she might spook.

“We didn’t go to the University of Washington,” said Simmons. The words came out slowly, as if she was having trouble saying them. “You and I went to the SHIELD Academy. You were one year behind me.”

“Shut up,” Joyce cried. But the words weren’t angry. If anything, she sounded oddly reverent. “No way. They were, like, super selective, right? I never would have gotten in.”

“They weren’t just selective,” Simmons replied. “They were secretive. You wouldn’t even know about it if you hadn’t attended.”

“Seriously? No way.” Joyce pushed her chair back. “You’re not, like, making fun of me because I told you I had amnesia, right? Except you’ve got all these photos. And I do know you. I look at you and I feel…”

Her voice trailed off. Her head dropped forward. The bill of her hot pink Doughnut Delights’ hat hid her face from Steve’s view.

“Guilty.” Joyce’s voice was so soft Steve had to strain to hear it above the bustle of a group of British tourists who had just come in. “I did something terrible, didn’t? I knew it, I knew it. I’m being punished, I knew it.”

“Joyce – ” Simmons was distressed.

“What did you call me?”

“Joyce Takei. That’s your real name,” Simmons said. “I’m here to help you get your memory back.”

“I don’t want it,” Joyce cried. And she fled the doughnut shop, knocking over her chair as she ran.

Steve was up and after her, but that was mostly a formality: Tony was waiting outside to catch her before she got away.

Simmons caught up with Steve. He could feel her trembling. “That went badly,” she said. Her voice was shaky.

“She didn’t even try to kill you,” Steve reassured her. “That went great.” Simmons looked unconvinced. “Come on,” Steve said gently. “Let’s go fetch her things. We can have her room ready by the time they’ve finished her medical check-up.”

***

“Good evening, Captain Rogers,” Danny Sanderson said. He sat, as he usually sat, in the doorway of his room in his wheelchair, his collie lying on the floor at his feet. Bobbi had gotten a dog for everyone on her caseload.

Steve was carrying half a dozen bulging trash bags of Joyce’s things: not heavy, at least by his standards, but bulky enough to make it hard to greet Sanderson properly. “Hey, Dr. Sanderson,” he said, trying to wave, and almost dropping a sack of bedding.

“Ma’am,” said Sanderson, gravely inclining his head to Simmons. He always reminded Steve a little of a Confederate veteran in an old movie: sitting on his porch in a rocking chair, bird dog at his feet, courteously greeting passersby.

Although Danny Sanderson had not lost his legs to a Minie ball. He had worked at the Sandbox, conducting experiments on powered people, and during the fall of the Sandbox one of those powered people had cut off both of Sanderson’s legs below the knee.

“Dr. Sanderson,” said Simmons, clutching a trash bag of Joyce’s stuffed animals to her chest. She stood a little too close to Steve, her voice high and small. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Have we met?” Sanderson asked. He sounded vaguely surprised.

“You gave a lecture at the SHIELD Academy when I was a student there,” Simmons added. “You tried to recruit me and Fitz for the Sandbox?”

But Sanderson had lost interest. His gaze drifted longingly toward the Agatha Christie novel on his lap.

Suddenly he perked up. “Have you been to the Clearwater Public Library? Perhaps that’s where we met. I work at the circulation desk there.”

“Not anymore,” Steve reminded him patiently. Sanderson had a stunning capacity to bring conversations back around to the Clearwater Public Library. Steve saw him every day, sometimes four times, on the way to and from Rumlow’s room, and they sometimes had this conversation every single time. “You’re in Stark Tower now. Remember?”

“Mmm,” said Sanderson, losing interest again. He picked up his Agatha Christie novel and began to read.

Simmons hung close to Steve’s side, jumping a little at the sounds as they passed the two other occupied rooms: video game gunfire from Dennis MacPhail’s, Lucy’s bark from Rumlow’s, first happy and then doubtful and imploring as Steve walked past instead of stopping.

Steve was relieved, in a cowardly sort of way, that he didn’t need to go in just yet. Last time he visited Rumlow, Rumlow had asked if Rollins were really dead, and played out the rest of the checkers game in numb silence when Steve said, “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

When they reached Joyce’s room and closed the door behind them, Simmons whispered, “Is it quite safe for us to be in here?”

“There are only three of them,” Steve said. “I think I can hold them off if they rush us.”

Simmons looked a little embarrassed. “Yes, of course,” she said, and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed, looking bleakly at the trash bags full of Joyce’s things. “Are they all like Dr. Sanderson?” she asked.

“No,” said Steve. “I think maybe one of the needles slipped when the T.A.H.I.T.I. surgeons operated on Sanderson.”

Possibly on purpose, but Steve could only deal with so much awfulness at once, so he pushed that thought away for now.

“Sanderson used to be quite brilliant,” Simmons said, wistful. “Evil of course. But brilliant.”

The bag of stuffed animals flopped over, disgorging the largest teddy bear, and Simmons picked it up and plumped it on her lap. “Mr. Snickers,” she said gravely, as if greeting the teddy bear, and Steve smiled a little and busied himself getting the room ready.

He couldn’t do anything with the stuffed animals till the bed was made, and he couldn’t make the bed till Simmons moved, and he didn’t want to paw through Joyce’s clothes. Tower security had taken all the board games and DVDs they brought from Joyce’s studio apartment.

That left Joyce’s posters and photos, and those, he thought, she would probably want to put up herself. He retrieved the photos to set them on her bedside table. The one on top showed Joyce’s roommate Amber, holding two doughnuts to her eyes like a pair of enormously inflated spectacles.

Steve hadn’t really had time to look at these photographs when he was taking them off Joyce’s corkboard. (They hadn’t bothered to bring the corkboard. No way would Tower security let Joyce have pushpins. They wouldn’t even let Rumlow have his model cars.) Amber and Joyce chowing down on the opposite corners of a big slice of pizza. Amber swinging around one of the lampposts in Central Park. Joyce and Amber posing by one of the lions at the New York Public Library. Steve smiled: the lions hadn’t changed since he was a child, although of course he always went to the Brooklyn library, not all the way downtown to the main branch in Manhattan. Joyce and Skye…

Had anyone told her about Skye? She might have guessed on her own by now.

Steve shuffled that one near the back of the stack. Joyce would have to decide what to do with it eventually, but he didn’t want Skye to be the first thing that greeted her when she walked into this room.

“Do you think we could get a magnet board for her?” Steve asked Simmons. She still sat on the bed, teddy bear on her knees. “So she’ll have some place to put these up?” Although it struck him, as he said it, that she might no longer want them: mementos of another life she’d lost.

“Certainly not. Give an Academy student a magnet, and she’ll break out of Stark Tower.” Simmons considered. “I could make a corkboard with a lattice of ribbons to hold the photos up. She had one like that in her dorm room. She pestered me for weeks for hard copies of our CarterCon photos…”

Simmons fingered the sage green velvet ribbon around Mr. Snickers’ neck. She looked down into his brown glass eyes. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?” she asked

“You talking to me or Mr. Snickers?”

Simmons smiled wanly, her eyes still worried. “When I asked Skye to help us bring Joyce in,” Simmons replied, “Skye said, ‘If you think mind-wiping them was so bad, do you really think imprisoning them again is going to make it better?’ Of course I thought that was just self-justification. But when Joyce said she doesn’t want her memories…”

Steve set the photos down on the bedside table and sat next to Simmons. “She killed six of her coworkers,” Steve reminded her. “I can see why she might not want to remember that. But is it fair to them for her to forget?”

“No, of course not. And Cassie’s still in a coma…” Simmons took Mr. Snickers’ paws in her hands and bounced him gently on her lap. “But what if Joyce never remembers?”

“I think she will,” Steve said. “Ivanov did, after all.” Ivanov was the man Tony found on the T.A.H.I.T.I. operating table, the top of his head sawn off in preparation to wipe his memories a second time. He was still convalescing on the medical floor in Stark Tower. “Rumlow’s remembering. It sounded like Joyce had an inkling already.”

Simmons nodded. But she wouldn’t look at him.

“Do you disagree?” Steve asked, and felt a little ill.

“No,” said Simmons. “No, it all sounds very logical laid out like that. I just – if it sounds right to me, I think perhaps that’s…” Her voice dwindled. “…a sign that it’s wrong.” She glanced at Steve, quite briefly, and then looked back down, resting her chin on Mr. Snickers’ head.

Steve’s heart melted. “Simmons,” he began.

“Mr. Stark offered us both jobs,” Simmons said. She put Mr. Snickers away from her, as if she couldn’t bear to touch the bear anymore. “And we simply can’t keep living in his tower indefinitely without giving him some answer, and if I say no, I’m giving up my chance to help lift Cassie’s coma, to help anyone. But every decision I’ve made, ever since I decided to attend the SHIELD Academy, all of them have been bad, and I…” She stood up, moving to the windowsill, and looked out at the darkening city.

“Simmons,” Steve said. “You might work at Stark Industries for decades and never find a way to help Cassie. And I’m sure you can find a research job somewhere else, and help people that way. Don’t base your decision about Tony’s job offer on guilt.”

Simmons nodded. She brushed at her face. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve assured her. “It’s not like you got drunk and punctured the Snoopy float doing a flyover at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.”

Simmons gave a wavering little smile. “Poor Mr. Stark,” she said. But it sounded reflexive, as if she weren’t really thinking about what she was saying. She looked out the window a while, then said, “I just keep thinking. If we hadn’t learned of the mind-wiping so suddenly, and Coulson had presented it to me on his own terms, as an intriguing technological problem, the way he did with the inventions in Howard Stark’s vault…”

“Simmons,” Steve said gently. “Don’t beat yourself up for what you might have done.”

Simmons shook her head. “My only objection would have been that it was too kind a fate for Ward,” she said quietly. She turned so she was facing Steve, but she didn’t look at him. Her arms crossed over her chest. “Have you made any progress finding him?”

“No. We don’t even know who his handler was.” Steve’s private nightmare was that Coulson had assigned himself Ward’s handler, but surely Coulson was too busy for that.

Although that hadn’t stopped Pierce from assigning himself Bucky’s handler, back in the day.

“I don’t know if I could visit Ward the way you visit Rumlow,” Simmons said, still quiet.

“Simmons, no,” Steve protested. “You don’t have to forgive Ward, or ever want to be in the same room with him again. I wouldn’t have chosen to forgive Rumlow. I just sort of stopped being angry with him when I saw what a mess he is now.”

She lifted a quick hand to her face. “That’s what worries me,” she said. “I’ll see Ward, and I won’t be able to hate him anymore.” Finally she looked at Steve. “Like Joyce. Do you think I’m betraying everyone she hurt?”

“I don’t,” said Steve, and thought about it, brow crinkling. “I’m not sure,” he said. “But it’s not you’ll wake Cassie up just by being angry at Joyce.”

Simmos picked up Mr. Snicker’s again. She rubbed the tips of Mr. Snickers’ velvet ribbon, and after a while set the teddy bear gently on the windowsill, as if to let it watch the proceedings. “Would you mind very much if I finish up here alone?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Steve said. “The room’s small enough, we’d just get in each other’s way, anyway.”

And so he had no excuse, any longer, to put off visiting Rumlow.

Lucy danced around Steve’s legs when he came into Rumlow’s room. “Hi, Rumlow,” Steve said, and knelt down to stroke Lucy’s silky ears. “Hey, Luce.”

Rumlow didn’t reply. Happy swore that Rumlow got up twice a day to take Lucy up to the roof, but if Steve hadn’t known that, he would have guessed Rumlow hadn’t moved since Steve left him after their checkers game that morning.

“I’m back,” Steve said, and retrieved the box of checkers from underneath Rumlow’s bedside table. Rumlow’s room was still almost bare. Steve had offered to bring Rumlow’s things from his trailer for him, and Rumlow had told him, “Just set it all on fire.”

Steve hadn’t burned Rumlow’s things. But there was, nonetheless, not much to bring: just Rumlow’s clothes and bedding and Lucy’s toys, and the model cars that Tower Security refused to approve.

He set up the checker game. They played in silence for a while. Steve didn’t try to force conversation with Rumlow. Drink some beers, watch the game, and cuss out the referee: Rumlow’s style of socializing had never involved much chitchat. He had thrown a Super Bowl party for the STRIKE team at his apartment.

That reminded Steve. “I found some photographs of our old STRIKE team.” Simmons’ search for photos of Joyce had inspired him to do a little digging of his own. “If you want them. It might spark your memory.”

Rumlow scowled. “I already told SHIELD everything.”

Of course he’d take it that way. “I know,” Steve said. “I don’t mean like that. I just thought you might…” Like to have them?

The STRIKE team was the closest thing Rumlow had to a family, and they were all dead, mind-wiped, or Steve. Rumlow might not want to remember anymore than Joyce did.

Rumlow looked at him. His eyes were deeply shadowed in his face. “Everything,” he said. “Just to keep the interrogator from going away and leaving me in solitary confinement again.”

Rumlow scooted a checker along the board. The movement drew Steve’s eye irresistibly; or perhaps it was just that he couldn’t bear to look at Rumlow anymore. “I’m sorry,” he said, and moved one of his own checkers, and didn’t notice till he’d moved it that he’d set himself up for a double jump.

Rumlow picked up a checker. It slipped from his fingers and rolled across the board. Steve caught it and put it back on its square, and gestured at the jump. “You want to – ?”

“I can do it!” Rumlow said, and he did, setting the checker down with a firm click after each jump. He swept Steve’s jumped checkers off the board. They clattered against the wall. One rolled to rest against Steve’s shoe.

“I used to wait for you,” Rumlow said, and Steve stopped, halfway through the act of picking up the fallen checker. “When I was in prison. Not that I thought you’d visit me. No, you’d just come to check out the conditions. You’d have gotten that sad puppy face you’re wearing right now, looking at us all in our little boxes.” His gaze devoured Steve’s face.

Steve stared back at him, hypnotized. “I’m sorry.”

Rumlow jerked his head, breaking the gaze. “Is that all you can say?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t – ”

“For fuck’s sake,” Rumlow snapped. “Defend yourself.”

“I really can’t,” Steve said. “I’m sorry. I should have visited, I should have known – ”

Rumlow brought his fist down on a corner of the checkerboard, upending it. The checkers rained down on the nubby institutional carpet, wobbling to all corners of the room. Steve knelt to pick them up.

By the time he had gathered all the checkers, Rumlow had rolled to face the wall. He had his blanket drawn up over his head. Steve stood, box in his hand, looking down at him, feeling helpless. “I’ll be back tomorrow?” he said.

He could see Rumlow’s shoulders hunch through the blanket, but Rumlow didn’t speak. Lucy nosed anxiously at his head.

Steve set the checkers set down on the bedside table. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, turning the question into a statement, and he quietly left.

***

When Steve arrived in Natasha’s apartment, his knees still shaky from that conversation with Rumlow, he found Bucky at the kitchen island, sopping up the last remains of a bowl of tomato soup with a triangle of grilled cheese sandwich. “Hi!” said Steve, surprised, delighted, although he shouldn’t have been: he had known that Bucky intended to arrive back that night. He smiled stupidly at Bucky. “How was Thanksgiving?”

“Dum Dum sent us a pie,” Bucky said, nodding at a half-eaten pecan pie in the center of the table. “Oh, and his great-granddaughter sent you this.”

He extracted a piece of paper from one of his pockets and handed it to Steve. Steve couldn’t help smiling at the scribbly crayon drawing. “Is that me?” he asked. “Am I flying?”

“I think so. I told her you couldn’t come visit, and she told me – ” Bucky stuck out his lower lip, mimicking a stubborn four-year-old. “ – ‘Captain Rogers can do anything.’ And she drew me a bunch of pictures to prove it.” He popped the last of his sandwich in his mouth.

Steve knew Bucky wanted him to smile, and he tried, but he felt painfully touched that a four-year-old remembered him months after his last visit. “Good to know someone likes me.”

Bucky tugged Steve’s arm. “C’mon, I know you want a hug,” Bucky said, voice muffled by sandwich, and held out his right arm.

Steve hugged him. Bucky’s hair smelled like fresh air: he had borrowed a motorcycle from Tony for the trip. Steve closed his eyes and breathed him in. “You should’ve come,” Bucky said.

Steve sighed. “I know,” he said. “But Rumlow doesn’t have anyone else.”

Bucky pounded Steve on the back a couple of times and let him go. “I’m going to make you a grilled cheese sandwich,” he announced.

Soon Bucky had the sandwich sizzling in the skillet. He glanced up, then dived for the remote. “Shit, we’re missing it,” he said, and turned on the TV.

Abigail Pierce and Pepper Potts flanked a lozenge-shaped table, the newscaster in between them smiling the smile of a man who knows his ratings will be through the roof. Abigail Pierce’s honey blonde hair, twisted in a graceful knot, gleamed in the studio lights. Pepper looked cool and poised in a way that Steve suspected meant she wished she were in Antarctica. “What do you have to say about Stark Industries’ recent decision to cut funding to SHIELD?” the newscaster asked.

“Rats always desert a sinking ship,” Abigail Pierce replied. That got a laugh from the studio audience. “And Stark Industries has always known how to cut their losses when one of their investments becomes unprofitable.”

“Yes, that was definitely why Stark Industries abandoned weapons manufacturing,” Pepper said, sarcastic.

“You never got out of weapons manufacturing,” Abigail Pierce cut in. “Tony Stark just stopped selling his weapons to anyone else, that’s all. Ask yourself,” she said, and turned from Pepper to the studio audience. “What does one private individual need with a stockpile of drones like Tony Stark’s Iron Legion? He says he’s going to use them to protect us. From what? Snoopy?” That got a big laugh. “We don’t need to be protected, not by people who use that word as an excuse to become the greatest threat to our freedoms.” Someone in the studio audience whooped. “We need to take back our own power and protect ourselves!”

Applause.

“And we’ll be right back after a word from our sponsors!” said the newscaster. The program cut to advertisements. Steve switched it off. The room seemed very silent in its absence.

Of course Abigail Pierce was having a field day with this. The hearings weren’t set to begin till January, and she needed to keep SHIELD in the public eye till then.

The split had only become public a couple days ago. Pepper released it on Black Friday, hoping that Tony’s Macy’s Day Parade mishap and the shopping coverage would mask it. That hadn’t worked as well as they’d hoped. The journalists were only slightly more restrained in their gleeful Schadenfreude than the bloggers, one of whom had written, “I hope Stark Industries & SHIELD have a big fight and they all KILL EACH OTHER.”

“I met her once,” Bucky said. Steve looked at him. “Abigail Pierce. She thought I was one of her dad’s interns. She gave me a piece of her mom’s leftover birthday cake.” He got up to flip the grilled cheese sandwich. “She’s not a bad person.”

Steve stirred his soup. “I don’t think giving interns leftover cake makes someone a good person.”

“I didn’t say that.” A blot of melted cheese sizzled on the skillet. “You should go on a talk show with her,” Bucky said.

“And say what? ‘Well, Abigail, I guess you have a point’?”

Bucky sighed. “Yeah,” he said, a little wistful. “I guess you couldn’t say that.” He ladled out a bowl of tomato soup for Steve. “How is Rumlow?” he asked. “Still not talking to you?”

“Oh, he talks,” Steve said, reflexively sarcastic. “He said ‘Your move’ at least three times today.” He stirred his soup, reaching for a little more honesty. “He’s mad at me,” he said. “For not doing anything about the shitty conditions in SHIELD prisons. Three years in solitary…”

“You didn’t know.”

Steve shook his head. “I didn’t want to know. It’s not like it was secret – not like T.A.H.I.T.I.”

Bucky flipped the grilled cheese sandwich onto a plate and cut it into triangles. “Why do you bother with Rumlow?” he asked. “All he does is make you miserable.”

“After everything he’s been through,” Steve said, “he needs someone to rely on. Someone who isn’t going to lie to him – ”

“And that’s gotta be you? I don’t see you playing checkers with the rest of Coulson’s voodoo dolls.” Tony’s unfortunate nickname had stuck. “What’s so special about Rumlow?”

“He was on my STRIKE team,” Steve said, half-unwilling. He nibbled at a triangle of sandwich. “I thought we were friends. Till it turned out he was part of a secret conspiracy for world domination and tried to kill me.”

“Pretty sure that means he’s not your friend,” Bucky said.

“You tried to kill me too,” Steve pointed out. “Twice.”

“Rumlow wasn’t mind-wiped or brainwashed when he did it,” Bucky shot back. “I bet they didn’t even have to lie to him to get him in Hydra, and you know they did that sometimes. I remember him making fun of some poor dumb computer tech who got recruited and only afterwards realized what Hydra’s real goals were. He was always making fun of people for shitty things like that.”

“And? You made fun of Tompkins for crying about his broken collarbone. Should I have given up on you?”

Bucky slewed sideways in his seat, away from Steve. He got up and dumped his dishes in the sink. “Probably would have saved you a lot of pain,” he said, and turned on the water full-blast, drowning out Steve’s attempt at a reply.

Steve, embarrassed, lifted up a spoonful of soup and tilted the spoon to watch it dribble back in the bowl. It wasn’t fair to compare Bucky and Rumlow. But he could hardly say, _I visit Rumlow because I feel guilty for not visiting him before. I let this happen to him._ Bucky would probably find that even less convincing than Sam had.

Bucky turned off the tap. “I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I shouldn’t have brought up Tompkins. It’s not the same.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, it is,” he said. “That’s exactly the kind of shit Rumlow did.” He hoisted himself on the counter, swinging his legs. “But it’s also different. You had a good reason to believe maybe I could get better, because I used to be a nice person, before. Whereas Rumlow’s been a crappy human being maybe since birth. Even his own sister won’t come see him. What makes you think he’s got it in him to be anything else?”

“I have no idea if he does,” Steve said. “But I do know that he’ll always be awful if no one ever gives him a chance to be better, so for Christ’s sake, Buck, let me give him one.”

Bucky continued to swing his legs. His boot heels made little black marks on the cabinetry. Then he hopped off the counter, cut a slice of pecan pie, and slid it in front of Steve. “All right,” he said. “How can I help?”

“Stop trying to talk me out of it,” Steve said.

“I know that, dumbass,” Bucky said, not unkindly. “And I can not do that anymore. But is there anything I can do?”

Steve was so touched he couldn’t speak for a moment. “Thank you,” he said, and wasn’t sure what else to say. “Thank you,” he said again, and still couldn’t recover himself. He felt like he might cry.

“Eat, okay?” Bucky said. He nudged the plate of sandwiches at Steve. “And you’re watching a movie with us this evening.” It had been a week, but Simmons and Mack and Fitz still lived in Natasha’s suite. Only Natasha wasn’t there: still chasing Mercer.

Steve, obediently, began to eat. Bucky watched him. Then he popped out of his chair. “I know,” Bucky said, and he fetched a scarlet mixing bowl from the refrigerator. He set it in front of Steve, removing the Saran wrap with a flourish. “Fruit.”

Steve smiled despite himself, looking down at the fruit salad. Grapefruit, oranges, pomegranate seeds: all the fruits of early winter.

He lifted his face to smile at Bucky. “What movie are we watching?” he asked, and Bucky beamed at him.

“Fitz says if you still haven’t seen _The Princess Bride_ it’s gotta be that.”

“All right,” said Steve. “ _The Princess Bride_.”

***

Simmons arrived halfway through the Fire Swamp scene, frazzled and exhausted and leading a flop-eared brown dog. “Bobbi asked if we could take Mercer’s dog for a few days,” she said, twisting the dog’s leash around her fingers. “Just till Natasha catches Mercer and Mercer can take care of her again. Bobbi has to stay in the hospital wing a bit longer, you see, with her arm broken in two places, and – ”

“’Course we can.” Bucky stretched out a piece of beef jerky for the dog. The dog edged forward, sniffing hopefully.

“What’s her name?” Mack asked.

“I don’t know,” Simmons said, chagrined.

“Buttercup,” Fitz suggested.

“Buttercup,” Bucky called, softly, and held out the jerky. The dog moved forward cautiously, and Bucky let the jerky fall. The dog nipped up the shards. “Buttercup,” he said, and held out his hand, and beamed when Buttercup licked hopefully at his fingers.

“How’s Joyce settling in?” Steve asked Simmons.

“We only just got her up to her room,” Simmons said. “She’s… Well, she’s quite upset, of course.”

Buttercup poked her nose into the hollow of Bucky’s hand. He slid off the couch to sit on the floor next to her. “Maybe you should lend Buttercup to her,” Bucky said, smoothing the dog’s ears. “She always wanted a pet.”

Joyce had agonized in her emails about whether to get a cat. _I really want one but I’m also out of the apt for hours every day and so is Amber and it’s not really big enough for two cats so the cat would be all alone a LOT, is it soooo selfish to inflict that on animal because I think a cat would cheer me up?_

“She’d just get unsettled again when Natasha brings Mercer in, and we have to give Buttercup back to her,” Simmons said.

Steve looked at Bucky, almost nose to nose with the dog, and hoped half-guiltily that Mercer would make good her escape.

For the next few days, Bucky took Buttercup, usually with Steve or Simmons in tow, to Central Park for walks. When he had less time, he took her up to the roof to use the facilities. Steve worried about running into Rumlow, but Rumlow only took Lucy to the roof twice a day, morning and evening – couldn’t let it get in the way of his important staring-at-the-wall activities – so he wasn’t hard to avoid.

Most of the other prisoners didn’t go up very often either: the bare flowerbeds and withered tomato plants weren’t much of an attraction, and they weren’t allowed anywhere near the greenhouse. But Joyce often puttered around, fluff dribbling from a broken seam in her parka, glancing wistfully at Buttercup and keeping her distance; and Steve suspected Bucky brought Buttercup to the roof as much out of curiosity or concern for Joyce as for convenience.

“Do you think it’d be too obvious if I threw the tennis ball at her?” Bucky asked, a few days later. He tossed the tennis ball lightly up and down. Buttercup tracked the motion with her eyes.

“Yes,” Steve said.

“It always worked great in Brooklyn,” Bucky said. If someone likely-looking hung around on the sidelines of a stickball game, Bucky used to get them involved by either knocking the ball their way or knocking into them. “You should’ve gotten out of the way,” Bucky would say in a friendly sort of way, and somehow – Steve never quite figured out how Bucky did it, but it usually worked – it would end with the newcomer joining in the game.

“We were ten then,” Steve pointed out. “Life was simpler.”

That was when the elevator doors opened, and Rumlow and Lucy came onto the roof.

Bucky was on his feet the moment Rumlow appeared. The movement caught Rumlow’s eye, and he stopped and stared. Then he yelled, “No! Jesus Christ, what’s that fucking maniac doing here?” Lucy got in front of him, hackles up, growling at them. “Lucy, Jesus Christ,” Rumlow said, and grabbed her collar to drag her behind him. “He can’t stay here. He’ll murder us all in our beds.”

Of course Rumlow figured Bucky was a new prisoner. “He’s not going to – ” Steve began.

But Bucky’s indignant explosion drowned out his words. “I never murdered any of you!”

“You broke a bowl over Rollins’ face!”

“He deserved it.”

“He told you to get off your ass and help clean the safehouse like the rest of us!” Rumlow yelled.

“Bucky,” Steve said, taking Bucky’s elbow. “Come on, let’s go.”

Bucky jerked out of Steve’s grasp. He advanced on Rumlow. “Well, you broke my nose with your rifle butt!”

Rumlow stood his ground. “You weren’t following orders!”

“You ordered me to shoot one of my teammates! Pierce should have shot you for that, I don’t know why he didn’t shoot you for that, it wasn’t fair.”

“He wasn’t a teammate, dumbass! He was one of those brainwashed ‘Your compliance will be rewarded’ guys. And he wasn’t complying anymore, so – ”

“I’m happy to comply,” Joyce said.

Silence.

They all stared at her. She looked back at them, glassy-eyed, not unnerved by their scrutiny; she didn’t even seem to notice it. But her smooth forehead creased slightly as the silence grew and no orders filled it.

Bucky seemed to unfreeze first. “Joyce,” he said. “Come with me.”

Joyce walked quite calmly across the garden to Bucky, and followed him to the elevator. Steve followed too, with a glare at Rumlow to keep Rumlow in place.

“Don’t you want to know where we’re going?” Bucky asked, once they had left the prison wing.

Joyce wasn’t allowed in this part of the Tower, but she didn’t look at it with any curiosity. “I’m happy to comply,” she said, still serene. Buttercup clung close to Bucky’s leg.

“I’d like to know,” Steve said.

“We’re taking her to Pepper,” Bucky said. “She’s got to know about this. All those plans about trying SHIELD’s prisoners – ”

“Of course,” said Steve, and abruptly his thoughts all fell into place. “How many people do you think SHIELD’s got locked up because we didn’t bother to check if they had been brainwashed?” he asked, his voice almost casual. Someone in SHIELD must have known about this brainwashing method: Rumlow knew about it, and he had, he said, told his interrogators everything. “How many of the Hydra agents we shot do you think were serving under duress?”

They reached the elevator. “Lots of Nazi soldiers in World War II were conscripts, too,” Bucky pointed out. “That didn’t mean shooting them was wrong, Steve. They were shooting at us.”

“I know,” said Steve. “But when the war was over, they got to go home.”

***

“Jesus fucking Christ,” said Tony. “I need a drink.”

Pepper pressed her hand over his, and he stayed seated on the sectional sofa. They had sent Joyce and Buttercup to rest in one of the quiet nooks of the penthouse, and now the four of them sat staring unseeing at the stunning view of Manhattan. Bucky mechanically unwrapped the Lindt chocolates from an asymmetrical wooden bowl on the coffee table, popping each chocolate in his mouth and then folding the foil wrappers into crisp, precise triangles.

“Your compliance will be rewarded,” Tony said. “Who talks like that?”

“Probably they don’t want anyone stumbling on their trigger phrase accidentally,” Pepper said.

“I doubt that’s the only trigger phrase they use,” Steve added. “Hell, it’s probably not even the only mind control method. We’ll have to figure out what else they’re doing.” He almost stomped his foot, like a petulant child. “Fuck Coulson for not following up on this!”

“Skye’s friend,” Bucky said suddenly. “Mike Peterson. Hydra gave him some shitty version of the serum and put a camera in his eye, so they could watch that he was following orders.” He had drawn one foot up on the couch, knee to his chest. “We watched him through it that one time he did a mission with us.”

They were all silent for a moment, appalled. “Of course Coulson never took the camera out,” Tony said. “Pepper, can’t we – ?”

“No.”

“I didn’t even finish that sentence.”

“We are not putting a camera in Coulson’s eye, Tony. I don’t care if you think it would be poetic justice.”

“Shakespearian,” Tony said, pouting.

“That Shakespeare,” Steve said. “All those great plays about how vengeance definitely won’t end with the whole cast dying in Act 5.”

“If Hamlet hadn’t been such an indecisive prick – ”

“Boys,” said Pepper. “Focus. How many other brainwashing victims do you think SHIELD’s got locked up?”

Another grim silence. “We need to empty those SHIELD prisons,” Steve said. “The longer we wait, the more time they’ll have to transfer the prisoners elsewhere.”

“Or just shoot them,” Bucky muttered.

“Do you think the military could take the ones who aren’t brainwashed?” Steve asked. “They’ve got to go into custody somewhere till they’re tried.”

“We could talk to Rhodey about it,” Pepper said.

“And what are we going to do with the rest of them? Turn the Tower into Tony Stark’s Home for Brainwashed Agents?” Tony asked.

“Of course not,” said Pepper. She nabbed her StarkPad off the table, excited. “We’ll find a more suitable Stark property. And a more suitable name.”

Tony stared at her. “You’re not serious,” he said, admiring. “You are serious. The name’s perfect, Pepper. Keep the name.”

“Absolutely not. Stark Home sounds like an orphanage in Dickens,” said Pepper, scrolling through a list of properties. “How about this one?” She held the StarkPad out to Tony. “If we installed a laser fence, the security would be…”

“Miss Potts,” said JARVIS, sounding rather embarrassed to interrupt. “The limousine has arrived to take you to the television studio for your appearance with Abigail Pierce.”

Pepper looked as if someone had given her an ice cream cone, only to snatch it away after she took the first lick.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony said. “You work on this. I’ll do the show.”

Pepper looked even more appalled. “No.”

“I give great talk show,” Tony said.

“All Abigail Pierce needs to do is say ‘Snoopy’ and no one will take anything you say seriously.”

“No one ever takes me seriously. That’s never stopped me before.”

“Tony – ”

“I could do it,” Steve suggested.

“Could you?” said Pepper, relieved.

“Yeah, sure. If you think they won’t mind.”

“I’m sure they won’t. Abby’s been angling for one of the Avengers all along.”

“Abby?” Steve was bemused.

Pepper looked faintly embarrassed. “We used to attend a lot of the same fundraisers before her father’s fall.” She relaxed back into the couch, leaning in toward Tony, the two of them bending over the StarkPad. “The spacious grounds are perfect. And we could put Coulson’s mind-wiping victims in this wing over here, away from the others…”

“Didn’t I tell you that you’d be happy I bought this one day?”

“Find a use for that derelict amusement park you bought in Japan, and then we’ll talk.”

“Mr. Rogers,” said JARVIS. “The limousine is waiting.”

Pepper and Tony were already so deep in planning they didn’t look up when Steve and Bucky left.

Bucky walked down to the garage with him. “Don’t say anything stupid,” he told Steve.

“No promises.”

They looked at each other. Bucky punched Steve lightly on the shoulder, then opened the limo door for him. “At least make the stupid count,” he said, and closed the door behind him.

***

Steve got out of make-up just minutes before he was set to go on. He was sitting in a folding chair, catching his breath, when Abigail Pierce came up to him.  


“Captain Rogers,” she said, smiling warmly, and held out a slim, elegant hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone my father held in such high esteem.”

Steve had taken her hand out of reflex, and now he wished he hadn’t. She continued without giving him a chance to reply or remove his hand. “He started collecting your comic books when he was a child. I inherited a complete set when he died.”

Steve extricated his hand. “I know it’s not polite to speak ill of the dead,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’d make an exception for your father, ma’am.”

“You didn’t know my father,” she replied. “Or you would have known he could never have been party to a plan to murder millions. He loved people, Captain Rogers.”

“I knew a lot of people in the Triskelion,” Steve said. “I wouldn’t have thought any of them would want to murder millions.”

Maybe some of them had been just as surprised to find themselves shouting “Hail Hydra!” as anyone else.

(Maybe Hail Hydra was a trigger phrase.)

An assistant producer hustled them toward the soundstage, and suddenly they were walking out, under the bright lights, greeting the anchorman. Steve was thankful this show had no studio audience. Given feelings about SHIELD just then, Steve figured they would probably boo him.

“Abby, good to have you back,” said the anchorman.

“Brad,” she said, shaking his hand.

“And we have a last minute addition to our program tonight. Captain Rogers, how’s the twenty-first century suiting you?” Brad asked, beaming at him. “Figured out your StarkPhone yet?”

On one of Steve’s early post-defrosting interviews, he hadn’t figured out how to turn off the ringer on his StarkPhone. Tony had called him on the air, and the anchor ended up doing the second half of the interview with Tony on the phone. Jon Stewart had a field day with it on the Daily Show afterward.

“Gosh, no,” Steve said, adopting his most wide-eyed innocent look. “I’m still trying to figure out the second half of the twentieth century, let alone the twenty-first. You want to tell me the one thing that will explain everything I missed?” He whipped out the little sketchbook he carried in his pocket, flourishing it for the camera. “I’m making a list.”

“SHIELD,” Abigail Pierce said. “That’s everything that went wrong with the twentieth century.”

“Jumping right to the controversy,” Brad said heartily. “Well, what do you have to say to that, Cap?”

“As a matter of fact,” Steve said, and he paused just a moment, because he actually had no idea what he intended to say. “I have to agree with Ms. Pierce,” Steve said. “I admired Howard Stark, and I love Peggy Carter, but the organization they founded is everything wrong with both the twentieth century and the twenty-first.

“SHIELD members like to say that SHIELD was founded to protect humanity from the threats we aren’t ready to face. That founding mission is why SHIELD spent decades hiding evidence of aliens and unusual powers. They stole years of research from gifted scientists and imprisoned people without trial, all in the name of protecting us from the truth. SHIELD was founded to lie to us.”

Brad leaned forward, as if he meant to speak, but Steve continued right over him.

“That’s why SHIELD collapsed when my friend Natasha Romanov uploaded its files on the internet. We all know the secrets those files revealed. Secret stockpiles of alien technology and advanced weaponry, secret prisons, secret human experimentation. Those revelations forced SHIELD back into hiding. It’s SHIELD, not humanity, that can’t survive the truth.

“And the truth is, the threat we face is the same threat we’ve always faced: fear. Sure, aliens are scary. But it’s our own fear that makes us try to buy protection by handing over our freedom. And, to paraphrase Benjamin Franklin, those who give up their freedom for safety get neither freedom nor safety. Handing unchecked power to the organizations meant to protect us just makes them another threat.

“My fears pushed me to rejoin SHIELD after the fall of the Triskelion,” Steve said. Abigail Pierce made an involuntary motion, but Steve went on. “My hands are as dirty as anyone’s, because I’ve found that SHIELD hasn’t changed. The weapons stockpiles, the secret prisons, the human experimentation: the new SHIELD picked up right where the old SHIELD left off. Abigail Pierce is absolutely right. SHIELD has to go.”

He stopped talking. The camera remained trained on his face, as if the cameraman had forgotten he ought to move it.

“Well,” said Abigail Pierce, and the camera swung hastily toward her. If she wasn’t flustered, she was at least surprised. “You seem to have stolen all my talking points, Captain America.”

“Just Steve, please,” Steve said. “And I’m sure we can still find something to argue about to entertain the viewers, ma’am. Unless you agree that, given his high rank in the organization, your father has to be regarded as heavily implicated in SHIELD’s policies?”

She still was not flustered, but she gripped the arm of her chair. “I could say the same about you, Steve.”

“You’re right,” Steve replied. “I was lucky to live long enough to realize that I was wrong. I hope I can atone.”


End file.
